From the Cradle to the Grave
by Gnarled Bone
Summary: Some scars are hidden, considered ugly or shameful. Some are bore proudly, a trophy of survival. His scar, however, was neither. -Oneshot, no chronological order. Dark Harry, other warnings inside. I don't own Harry Potter.


**A/N:** _This is inspired by both the fics _Cauterize (Harry Potter fic, by Lady Altair)_ and_ Toy Soldiers (Kannazuki no Miko fic, by RadiantBeam)_. I admit some lines were probably taken from them so all credit goes to them, I was just bored and wanted to create a few scenes similar._

_Constructive critisism and reviews are appreciated, flames are not. Enjoy!_

**Warning:** Angst and Character Death.

* * *

**1. Reminder**

Some scars are hidden, considered ugly or shameful. Some are bore proudly, a trophy of survival. His scar, however, was neither. It was not something to be proud of, nor ashamed of. It was there as a reminder. A reminder that he was running out of borrowed time.

It was also the mark of a story, a cover to a thick book he didn't want to open. One of hardship and loneliness.

One that he would give up nearly anything to be rid of.

* * *

**2. Lightning**

Jagged and thin, it resembled a bolt of lightning.

Fitting, for it was forced upon him just as quickly as lightning strikes. He should of died the day the mark claimed him as its bearer, just as lightning would course through its victim and down their heels and into the ground, pilfering all life from their body and leaving their skin cold and eyes empty.

Dead before they could even realize it.

* * *

**3. Strings**

The thought of a corpse reminded him of a puppet without its master. The soul being the master and the body the puppet, but with the absense of the soul the puppet couldn't dance, couldn't pretend to be alive. There would be no one there, nothing to hold up the strings and make it lift its wooden legs and dance once more.

This scar marked him as a puppet, but his soul wasn't the master. No, the puppeteer was the Leader of the Light.

But he was dead now, and his stringless pawn would dance after him loyally, even unto death, just as he planned.

* * *

**4. Orchestrated**

His birth decided his fate, the scar only sealed it. From the moment he left his cradle, his life was all planned out. What enemies he would make, friends he would gain, his neglect at his relative's family, his house, his allegiance, and more importantly . . . his _death_.

Perhaps even the crush formed on his best mate's sister.

Were they all pawns too, just like the rest of them? Just like him?

He wouldn't be suprised if his life was written out and arranged like a play, so the_ director _wouldn't forget what acts he was to perform on the terrifying stage that was the world.

* * *

**5. To Judge**

The scar decided people's perception of him. How they saw him in whatever light that was cast upon him.

They either worshipped or denigrated him, adored or despised him. It was repulsive how they could all so quickly change their opinions of him.

Most held him on a pedestal, placing all their hopes and problems unto him. Others wished to put him in that casket nestled neatly beside that ivory tombstone that bore the Leader of the Light, who raised him like a sheep, shepherding him towards the tempting embrace of death and trained to accept it like a lover's caress. Dumbledore might have felt remorse for it, but it was for "The Greater Good," wasn't it?

He often wondered what it would be like if he were to have lived without it, or to live anew.

* * *

**6. Waltz**

The air was bitter with a sharp, biting cold, ice devouring the lake and enroaching onto the shore. He could hear his godfather gasp and see him tremble in fear as forms writhed in darkness. They dance like shadows above frozen waters.

He briefly mused that the dance was horridly beautiful, but terrified him more than it ensnared him.

His breath came out in the form of frosty precipitation as the shadowy forms of despair waltzed closer and closer, their rattling breaths inhaling and exhaling in rhythm with his mother's rising screams, filtering through his ears like a tragic symphony of death.

He weakly tried to grasp for warmth, memories that brought him joy slipping from his as he chanted, weak wisps of light escaping his holly wand.

It was hopeless, and he fell forward, his face impacting harshly with the ground, ears ringing with wails and chilly breaths.

Darkness creeped along the edge of his vision. Just before it enveloped his sight, he saw blinding white light and achingly_ familiar_ figure standing on the opposite side of the lake.

* * *

**7. The Eavesdroppers**

He hated them all.

The teachers, the students, the very _paintings_ on the wall! So quick were they to share secrets that he considered personal, and having them layed out to others on a silver platter made him feel vulnerable, naked.

Kind of like now, stripped to only his boxers as Madam Pomfrey ranted, forcing potion after _vulgar_ potion down his throat as she performed dozens of spells on him. He was seated on the bed with his name etched onto a golden plaque attached to its headboard. Why, oh why did Pomfrey have to give him his own bed? He didn't end up here /that/ often!

So what is Aunt Petunia forced him to do chores in the scorching sun, blistering his bare skin, or made him cook dinner, and gave him Dudley's old hand-me-downs and sometimes swung the occasional frying pan at him? So what if Uncle Vernon threw him in that locked cupboard for a week or more with no food or perhaps hit him when he was drunk? He was used to it, after all.

But it seemed the bristling mediwitch didn't agree, hurling enough clever, disturbing or completely bewildering insults to make sailors_ blush_ and take notes and Dumbledore to tinge red and wear the earmuffs she liked.

* * *

**8. Alike**

He and Draco were the same, he realized; in some ways.

They both had scars. His a thin scar etched into his forehead, and Draco's the dark, coiling serpent that marred his skin, now having been exchanged for tissue paler than the surrounding skin upon Riddle's death.

They both belonged in Slytherin, only Harry chose Gryffindor.

They both hated muggles, only Harry hid it, ashamed.

They both thought Dumbledore was mental, only Harry believed it was a price to be powerful. He never stopped to think if that made him mad, too.

Both were made to think their way was the right way.

Harry pondered and realized that, _maybe_, he should have accepted the pale boy's hand after all.

* * *

**9. Guilt**

He gazed blankly at the opposite wall of the cupboard, sorrow swelling up in his emerald eyes. Mourning and guilt grasped his heart in their dreadful palms, constricting it and forbidding it to beat without the crushing pain blooming inside his ribcage.

His parents died in an attempt to protect him; _his fault_.

Cedric died, having been involved in Riddle's attempt to kill him. It was_ his fault_.

Sirius, his Godfather, was dead, having plummeted into that abyssal Veil that appeared to have no bottom. And it was. . .

All. _His_. **_Fault_**.

But he need not mourn anymore, for he would join them soon.

The holly wand he grasped in his hand thrummed in anticipation, sensing its owners desire to use it once more. He was able to sneak it away before it was locked away with all his other_ freakish_ things into the cupboard.

The Dursleys didn't know what to expect when they barged into the smallest bedroom to demand why breakfast wasn't prepared and chores were not being fulfilled.

They didn't expect to find him sprawled out onto the bed, sleeping.

Vernon marched up to the sleeping boy, his meaty hands grasping at the collar of his shirt as he lifted him up from the small bed. His breath blew back Harry's hair, like a dragon preparing to release a deadly roar of ash and fire, and it was then he realized something was wrong.

His nephew's body, dangling in his grip, was stiff and his skin cold. No startled gasp or exhale of air escaped his parted lips.

He heard something clatter to the ground. His eyes were drawn, slowly, haltingly, to the floor.

A thin peice of wood, one of those silly magic sticks, rolled along the floor innocently after having slipped from its wielder's coiled fingers.

Vernon then knew that Harry, the Boy-Who-Lived, was dead.

* * *

**10. Toy Soldiers**

Harry stared after Dumbledore, his eyes locked onto the back of his head.

Somehow, he knew that his being in the tournament was old, grandfatherly man's fault.

When would he stop playing with his life?

It reminded him of Dudley's toy soldiers, all lined up and armed, painted in uniforms of camouflage red and white. He once wanted to play with them when he was still a small child, but lost that urge when Dudley knocked one over and caused them all to fall down.

They layed there motionlessly, prostrate, waiting to be picked up once more.

Waiting to be played with and forced to fall down again.

It made Harry sad. Didn't they get tired of falling? Tired of having someone pick them up only to be forced back down for the amusement of their owner?

He was tired, but the weariness and the reminder of the toy soldiers collapsing in a strangely neat heap made him realize something.

Even toy soldiers get tired of falling down, their paint chipping and color fading. Soon Dudley had gotten tired of playing with them, annoyed and angry that they looked old and worn.

One day, Dumbledore would get tired of making him fall down.

One day, he would stop being picked up.

The thought made his lips curl upwards for the shortest of moments, before slipping off his face unnoticed as the other champions turned to stare at him.


End file.
